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In the same way a poet hears, reads, and believes a thousand undeniable truths which have not yet got into his blood, nor will do after reading Mr. Bourne's book; he writes, therefore, as if neither truths nor book existed. Life and the arts follow dark courses, and will not turn aside to the brilliant arc-lights of science. Some day, without a doubt, and it may be a consolation to Mr.
Sidney's Arcadia, edited by Somers; Defense of Poesy, edited by Cook, in Athenæum Press Series; Arber's Reprints, etc.; Selections from Sidney's prose and poetry in the Elizabethan Library; Symonds's Life of Sidney, in English Men of Letters; Bourne's Life of Sidney, in Heroes of the Nations; Lamb's Essay on Sidney's Sonnets, in Essays of Elia.
Bourne's." I walked slowly out of the house, and overtook Titbottom as I went. He smiled gravely as he greeted me, and said: "I have been asked to invite you to join a little pleasure party." "Where is it going?" "Oh! anywhere," answered Titbottom. "And how?" "Oh! anyhow," he replied. "You mean that everybody is to go wherever he pleases, and in the way he best can.
I remember one felicitous suggestion of Bourne's which after much working over we incorporated into a paragraph to our common satisfaction; and this paragraph received commendation in some critical notice. Showing this to Bourne, I said: "That is the way of the world. You did the thinking, I got the credit." Bourne had, however, forgotten his part in the paragraph.
"I suppose it is so," I said to myself, as I looked wistfully at the ship, which began to glimmer and melt in the haze. "It certainly is not a fishing smack?" I asked, doubtfully. No, it must be Bourne's magic yacht; I was sure of it. I could not help laughing at poor old Hiero, whose cabins were divided into many rooms, with floors composed of mosaic work, of all kinds of stones tessellated.
"The magic yacht is not Bourne's," answered a familiar voice. I looked up, and Titbottom stood by my side. "Do you not know that all Bourne's money would not buy the yacht?" asked he. "He cannot even see it. And if he could, it would be no magic yacht to him, but only a battered and solitary hulk."
He was coming week after next, Mary had said, and Mis' Winslow had heard no word about it from anybody else. When "the biggest of the work" of the forenoon was finished, Mis' Winslow ran down the road to Ellen Bourne's. In Old Trail Town they always speak of it as running down, or in, or over, in the morning, with an unconscious suiting of terms to informalities. Ellen was cleaning her silver.
It was, as the papers aptly remarked, "Quite a coincidence that Bourne's right eye was beautifully and variously decorated in honour of the occasion." I don't expect many finalists, at rackets anyhow, turn up with black eyes. Grim and Wilson had come back to St.
She went into the dining room, still without great wonder that they were all there; but when she saw the women in white aprons, and the table arrayed, and on it Ellen Bourne's Christmas rose blooming, she broke into a little laugh. "Oh," she said, "you done this a-purpose for him." "I hope, Mary, you won't mind," Mis' Mortimer Bates said formally, "it being Christmas, so.
He was removed in an insensible and very dangerous condition to the George Hotel. Meanwhile, an attack was made with iron bars, used battering-ram fashion, upon the doors of many of the shops, the rioters "prodding" them with all their might. Messrs. Bourne's shop, at the corner of Moor Street, was the first to give way, and the men quickly gained admittance.
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